A Study in Molly
by 65PurpleRoses
Summary: Sherlock Holmes believes he knows everything there is worth knowing in this world. That is, except for women. He knows nothing about them. He decides to conduct a research study to learn more about them - starring Molly Hooper. But what he gathers from this experience is more than he ever thought possible.
1. I'm Studying You

A/N: It's been years since I last took the time to sit down and actually flesh out a plausibly good novel with a strong plot and characters. I just recently started watching Sherlock and became instantaneously hooked. I've also already become a _huge _Sherlock/Molly shipper. Anyways, this is my first story I've had published on FanFiction. Enjoy!

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Quite frankly, Molly Hooper couldn't believe her own audacity. Her right palm was stinging most unpleasantly, and she could clearly see a five-fingered handprint appearing on Sherlock Holmes' cheek. That very same hand went up in a swoop to cover her mouth in horror, once the full weight of what had just transpired settled over her. "I – oh! Are you all right?"

"I could ask you the very same, Molly. Your hand looks rather sore." He was gazing at her with an unfathomable look on his face.

"My hand? It's – it's fine." She glanced down to see her skin flushed a hot, fire engine red. As she spoke, it throbbed once. "I'm so sorry for attacking you like that, Sherlock. I don't know what came over me."

When she looked up again, there was a thin, wry smile on his lips. "The fault is entirely mine." She blinked. "I should not have provoked you in a such an undignified manner. Although I shall not hesitate to state that it was for my own research purposes that this incident came to pass."

Frowning, Molly tried to decipher his words. _His own research purposes? _She eased herself into one of the stools that was crowded around her workstation in St. Bartholomew's laboratory. Idly, she toyed with an empty test tube, rolling it gently between her fingers. "I'm afraid I don't follow." She confessed after a long moment.

"No?"

"No." She affirmed.

In one swift movement, Sherlock rose from his own stool and began to stride about the room. His hands were clasped behind his back, and every so often his eyes would slide to Molly, still sitting. She was watching him closely, although she tried to hide it by inspecting the vial cradled in her hand. Finally, he sat down again. He was seated directly across from her.

"I've decided that since no criminal cases have piqued my interest as of late, I would conduct my own research study during this time." Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "After much pondering over what exactly to study – there is not much I do not know about, as you've probably gathered – it struck me. The brilliant simplicity of it! And the subject was right beneath my very nose this entire time." His eyes had grown rather large and excited during his speech, as they often did whenever he was speaking about his work.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" She asked. The right side of his face was looking rather puffy.

"Molly." His tone held a chastising air to it.

"Right, sorry." She glanced away from him, momentarily embarrassed. She attempted to gather her wits about her once more. "I honestly haven't a clue what you've chosen to study, Sherlock. You must be very interested in it though, I can tell."

He didn't respond immediately, and the room grew quiet. All Molly could hear was the soft hum of her equipment scattered throughout the lab that she was currently neglecting. She became acutely aware of Sherlock staring at her this whole time. A warm blush began to creep up her neck and tinged her cheeks.

"You blush." It was a statement.

"Excuse me?" She started at his voice.

"You're blushing, why?" His voice was surprisingly gentle, and Molly blinked owlishly at him. For a moment, the pair was suspended like this, until Sherlock spoke again. "These are things I cannot comprehend. Why are you turning pink in the cheeks?" Incredibly flustered, Molly shrugged. "I'm studying _you_, Molly Hooper." He burst out.

"Me?!" She squeaked. She couldn't have been more stunned than if she had just been smacked in the head with a wooden board – or maybe she had, and this was all a hallucination. Had she fallen somewhere?

After a moment, she gained back the necessary motor skills to close her gaping mouth. She swallowed. "Why?" The question was nothing more than a breath of air. She hadn't regained enough composure yet.

If Sherlock noticed her complete mental breakdown, he chose not to dwell on it. "I've studied nearly every possible subject there is to know, Molly. My intellect cannot be rivaled." He paused for a second to clear his throat. "But I know nothing –" He grimaced slightly. "I know nothing of women. How they act, why they act the way they do."

That final comment elicited a small smile from Molly, who leaned forward in her chair and brought her face closer to Sherlock's. "That's a mystery I doubt anyone can solve." She giggled.

He didn't change face. "Don't make jokes, Molly." At seeing the hurt expression fleeting cross her features, he felt a small kernel of chagrin pass through him. "But I don't wish to study the entire population of females. Just you."

Again, she asked. "Why?" She noticed Sherlock about to speak again, and she held up her index finger. _Wait. _She furrowed her brow, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase her thoughts. "Why choose me in particular? You could easily find any woman on the streets to use as a part of your study. I surely bet that Irene girl you're so fond of would willingly submit herself." A note of bitterness crept into her tone.

Sherlock did not ask how Molly had deciphered the fact that Irene was indeed alive in the world – that was a question for another conversation entirely. With painstaking precision, he removed one of his hands from beneath his chin and rested it on top of Molly's, which rested flat against the table. He was keenly aware of her sharp intake of breath. "Every woman that I've had to encounter in my life has been easy to decipher. Not worth my time. But you, Molly. You're a code that is incredibly hard to crack. You are infinitely more interesting than anyone else I've met."

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Thanks for reading and reviews and/or helpful critiques are always welcome! :)


	2. Late Night Phone Calls

**A/N: **I'm going to apologize for the poorer quality of this chapter. I wrote the first chapter during a free afternoon, and this one later that night. My writing abilities significantly decrease the later it gets. Yet this was the first time I got around to editing it, and I didn't have the energy to change much. Enjoy!

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"_You are infinitely more interesting than anyone else I've met." _

That one simple phrase: those ten, beautiful words were wreaking havoc on Molly Hooper's mind.

For once, she didn't mind her evening commute. She was oblivious to the cold, drizzling rain that often permeated England in early November. She wasn't impatiently tapping a foot – tired from standing all day – while she waited for the metro. She even didn't complain when an older gentleman sloshed a half-cup of his coffee onto her blouse from the jostling of the train. Mostly.

By the time she reached her apartment, keys jangling loosely in her left hand, Molly felt entirely too fuzzy and wonderstruck by Sherlock's words. She stepped into the tiny foyer. Minutes later she was curled up in front of the television, wearing her warmest pair of pajamas, with a tall glass of red wine in her grasp.

She idly sipped at her drink while she speed-flipped through the channels, hoping something would catch her eye. After dutifully watching the news for a half hour, she gave up hope of being adequately distracted and let her mind dance back to the events that happened just hours ago.

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"You are infinitely more interesting than anyone else I've met."

Molly had to repress a slightly hysterical giggle that was threatening to escape her slightly parted lips. Her free hand – the one not underneath Sherlock's warm palm – came up to cover her mouth. After a moment, she slowly lowered it back to the table. "You're joking." She eventually managed to say.

"I don't joke, Molly. Certainly not like you." Sherlock said, deadpan.

In her shock, she quickly withdrew her hand from beneath his and fixed him with a mediocre glare. She wasn't quite sure if she was capable of being truly angry with Sherlock Holmes. All she could do was pretend, to save some face. If she was being completely honest with herself, she wasn't even that awfully mad earlier when she slapped him. That was a reflex move. "Must you always say such mean things?"

Sherlock didn't acknowledge her question. He was resting his chin on the tips of his fingers again, staring at her. She wondered if she was ever going to get used to his eyes. "I have previously apologized for my atrocious behavior which in return caused for you to strike me across the face. I do concede now that calling you a whore simply because you wore high heels and a shorter dress with a bit of extra make-up was rather foolish of me." He was speaking rapidly. "However, the comment was not meant as an insult, merely a tool used to gauge your reaction. It has been duly noted." Molly looked at him carefully. Was there a hint of sarcasm in his last sentence?

"Ah – apology accepted." She looked around the room, stalling while she tried to think of something witty to say. "Thanks for explaining, well, you know." She internally cringed at her complete failure at flirting.

"Indeed." Sherlock stood up and flicked up the collar of his coat. He began to stride towards the exit.

Eyes wide, she scrambled up from her sitting position and hurried over to Sherlock. "Wait!" She almost reached out a hand to lay on his arm, but stopped herself. He was looking at her, rather impatiently. She swallowed and awkwardly fluttered her hands in the air. "Is – is that all?"

He looked momentarily surprised. "Yes, for now. I'll be in touch. Goodbye, Molly."

After the door closed in his wake, she walked back over to the table and let her hand drift across the surface. She cast a longing glance towards the direction in which Sherlock had just left, and sighed. "Bye."

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Startled, Molly jerked herself awake. It took her a split second to realize her phone was ringing, and another to realize she had spilled her wine – both on her and the sofa cushions. She hurriedly set the glass down and, still dripping, went to hunt down her phone. "Bloody hell, what time is it?" She muttered.

After rooting around in her coat pocket, she located the damned thing and brought it to her ear. "Molly Hooper." Her voice was clipped, but still held traces of sleep in it.

"Good morning, Molly." Sherlock's voice wafted into her ear. Caught completely unaware, she frowned and pulled the phone away from her face. Her screen read that it was 2:08 AM.

"Sherlock? Why on Earth are you calling me so late? Has something happened?" He sounded entirely too chipper for such a late hour, and she was already wandering towards her room, ready to change into a pair of work clothes. Perhaps there was another murder.

"No, nothing of importance has happened. I simply wanted to call and wish you a good morning."

"Good morning? Sherlock, it's 2 AM!" Exasperated and exhausted, Molly flung the words at him.

"I see you already forgot our little chat from earlier." Did he sound _amused? _"I will simply say again: I'm studying you and your personality, your habits, quirks, et cetera."

"Yes, but…"

"This call was merely to evaluate how exactly you would handle your phone ringing at such a late hour. Lacking a bit of grace, I might say." If Molly had been confused moments ago, she was simply flummoxed now.

Her mind was clearing up a bit though, despite the complete oddity of the situation. The sleep was gone from the corners of her brain. In a rare flash of witty genius, she coyly said into the phone, "Why, Mr. Holmes, this is nothing more than a 2 AM social call, isn't it?"

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. She had an apology on her lips when his voice broke the quiet. "Your humor is improving. Goodnight."

Rather mollified, she slowly lowered her arm. She was about to press the "End" button when his voice, muffled by the distance, came through her phone. "Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget about the wine." There was a soft click, and the line went dead.

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I think I'm finally getting the grasp of how to format my stories properly on here. If anything seemed confusing or odd, that was my naivety... As I said previously though, reviews and critiques are always welcome!


	3. Dinner?

**A/N: **Luckily my earliest class was cancelled yesterday, and I sort of neglected my homework to get this third chapter completed... But the more I write this story, the more into it I get and I can't really seem to stop myself. Oops.

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John Watson was not happy. As he ruminated to himself on the couch in 221B Baker Street, he came to the conclusion that he was – in fact – incredibly depressed, and he could pinpoint his melancholy feelings on precisely one thing: women. His cell phone was still illuminated in his left hand, and he clicked it off with a huffy sigh.

He could still hear the raucous laughter echoing around in his brain. His most recent attraction had effectively shut down any preconceptions he might have had about her interest in him. When he had expressed his desire to become more intimately acquainted with her, all she said was: "Oh! I truly thought you were gay! I'm sorry, but…" She had broken off to contain her rising giggles.

He frowned at the floor. "I'm _not _gay."

At that moment the front door to the flat opened, and Sherlock sauntered into the room, a burlap bag clutched in his right hand. He unwound the scarf from his neck, removed his coat and headed towards the kitchen. Watson was curious. He heaved himself up from the couch and followed behind his friend. "Did you actually do the shopping for once?" He attempted to peer around Sherlock's broad shoulders and found his view rather obstructed.

"No." Sherlock's response was clipped.

"Then what's in the bag?" John shifted positions and leaned against the adjacent counter for a better look. Sherlock meticulously pulled out a finely wrapped steak, a hefty bag of potatoes and some fresh vegetables. Ever so slowly, Watson's jaw dropped more and more as a dawning suspicion began to grow in his mind. It was solidified all the more when Sherlock lastly pulled out an unopened bottle of red wine.

Watson cleared this throat and casually scuffed his shoe along the worn floor. "Sherlock, you wouldn't happen to have a _date_,would you?" The question was littered with hidden implications.

Sherlock glared coolly at his friend. "Dates are for normal, mundane people like you, John. This is an experiment." He gestured broadly to the array of food before him. "This is my latest research project."

"You're researching the art of cooking?"

"No. Now if you truly must know, I have a rather clever plan of inviting Molly over tonight for dinner."

John just stared at his friend. "Molly Hooper?"

"Would you happen to know of any other Molly's that have made my acquaintance recently?"

Utterly bewildered, John shook his head. He tried to sift through Sherlock's words – they were often riddled with other meanings – but he couldn't come to any other conclusion than Sherlock was plainly inviting Molly over for (could he even dare think it?) romantic purposes.

John delicately attempted to broach the subject once more. "Look, Sherlock…" He swallowed. "If you feel an emotional or physical attachment to Molly, that's fine. You're allowed to become involved with someone with whom you enjoy."

There was a long, awkward pause. John began to internally sweat. Finally, Sherlock turned his head to meet Watson's gaze straight on. His eyes were devoid of any emotion, and their depths seemed unfathomable. "I thank you for you attempted conciliatory words, John." His words were rather acerbic, and Watson narrowed his eyes. "But I do not need you to give me a lecture on how to run my own emotions. I am perfectly more capable than you are probably aware. As I was saying previous, this is an experiment I have designated in order to better understand how the female population works and thinks. You're wondering, 'How? Why Molly Hooper?' I simply place her into any number of situations and monitor her reaction, because I can think of no other more willing participant. The sheer brilliance and simplicity of it!" His voice had gradually warmed throughout the speech, and by the end he seemed excited by the prospect of expanding the knowledge of his mind palace.

Sherlock, in his delight, had failed to notice that John had gone rather still. Eventually, Sherlock turned back to his friend and cocked his head in puzzlement at Watson's stony glare. "What?"

"This is… incredibly stupid and selfish of you. Don't you see that –" John began, but was effectively silenced by Sherlock waving his hand in the universal sign that he wished to be alone.

"Leave me be. I must cook." Sherlock turned away from his friend and spread his hands wide on the counter, surveying the food before him. Silently, John retreated from the kitchen, his face etched with scowling lines. _Something, _he fiercely thought, _had to be done._

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"There." Molly murmured to herself. She had just finished up the preliminary assessment of a newly deceased man whose body eventually wound up on a cold slab in her morgue.

With a gloved finger, she gently traced the outline of a wrinkle that was marked on the poor man's face. From the police reports and eyewitness accounts, this man's death had been a tragic accident – a slip on a particularly wet spot of pavement, which resulted in a skull fracture so severe the effects were immediately and deadly. These were the people that haunted her at night when she was unable to sleep: the poor souls whose lives were taken from them, so quickly and without warning.

With a rather heavy sigh, she deftly zipped up the giant black bag that would preserve the body until funeral arrangements could be made. It was also an excuse for her not to look at him. She turned away and peeled off her gloves. Once she washed her hands, she wearily dragged one across her face. The only thing that currently kept her going was the promising idea of a hot bath and a good book once she returned home.

After she had effectively tidied up her workspace, packed up all her equipment and turned off all the lab machines, she hitched her purse onto her shoulder and made her way towards the exit. Just as she flicked off the lights in the lab, her fingers resting lightly on the door handle, a movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention.

She froze. Every brain cell she possessed was screaming at her to turn the lights back on, but she continued to peer out into the inky blackness of the room. There was an unfamiliar whoosh of blood rushing in her ears, assimilated only with what can be described as a terror of the unknown. A long moment passed before she shakily shrugged and took a step out the door.

"Dinner?" A male voice called out.

With a piercing scream, Molly whirled around and flipped all the light switches back on. Instantly the room was awash in bright colors, and Sherlock stood casually in the middle. He was staring at her.

For a few moments she blinked rapidly, and brought a trembling hand up to her chest. She was quite sure her heart rate would never slow back down. Finally she settled herself enough and regained the capability of forming coherent words. "What?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh, seemingly exasperated with her slow mental processing skills. "Dinner, Molly. Food, drink." He mimed the motion of picking up a piece of food and eating it.

"Yes – yes, what about it?"

He walked forward a few feet, suddenly closing the space gap that had been between them. She could nearly feel the heat radiating off of him he was so close. In fact, she had to tip her chin up to meet his piercing gaze. When she found his eyes trained solely on her, she felt her breath catch. "I am inviting you over to my flat to have dinner with me, now." His tone was blunt.

"Oh!" She let out a breathy squeak. "That sounds absolutely lovely…" Despite her best intentions to stop it, a dreamy smile was slowly spreading its way across her face. It was halted when his last word sunk in. "Wait, now?" She mentally calculated just how awful she looked after a day of working with dead people. After subtracting the fact that she had neglected to wear any makeup or fashionable clothes, she decided she looked positively hideous. "I'm not dressed properly. I couldn't possibly accept a dinner invitation looking like this."

Sherlock swept over her with a cursory glance, and shrugged nonchalantly. "You look fine. Come. Dinner shall be ready soon."

Molly let out a resigned sigh. She knew she was utterly helpless when it came to Sherlock, no matter how ridiculous his demands. She turned off the lights once more, closed the door and hurried to catch up to him, who was ambling down the hallway with his hands in the pockets of his coat. When she slid up alongside him, he gave her a sideways glance. "I hope you enjoy steak."

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Thank you to everyone who's reviewed my first two chapters thus far. No matter how slight the encouragement, it always helps.


	4. I Do Believe I'm Drunk

**A/N: **I had the most difficult time trying to figure out what direction I was going to take this story in. There are just some many possibilities. I had deleted and rewritten this chapter about three times before I was content with this. Enjoy!

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As Molly sat around the rather tiny, wooden table in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, she allowed herself to realize that Sherlock Holmes was more of an enigma than she originally thought possible. With his aloof – even icy – demeanor, and the excruciatingly careful way he held both his emotions, facial features, and body language in check, she had deemed him utterly unapproachable. Now that she knew he indeed was rather difficult to warm up to, he had another entirely different side to him that Molly hadn't thought possible. Compassion. Or at least some semblance of it.

She lazily swirled the remnants of her wine around in her glass, letting her eyelids droop. She was comfortably full, warm and Sherlock was sitting only a few feet across from her, his fingers resting lightly under his chin as he watched her movements. His eyes were narrowed slightly – hooded, Molly liked to think – in a calculating manner. Whenever Molly met his gaze, she shyly turned her head away, a pinkish tinge creeping into her cheeks.

Vaguely, she tried to recount how many glasses of wine she had consumed since the time she had arrived. Molly wasn't proud of the fact that it didn't take much to get her inebriated, so she always tried to keep her alcohol intake at a minimum. Tonight, that had been blown clear out of the window. She had a suspicion that if she attempted to stand or walk, she would crumple to the ground in a heap. Either way, the number evaded her.

After a long moment of silence, she let out a giggle most unlike her. "Sherlock…" She trailed off and set down her wine glass. She mirrored the exact pose Sherlock was in, bringing her hands together underneath her chin, and gazed at him. "I think I'm drunk."

There was a slight twinge at the corner of his mouth, and he arched one eyebrow. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure how to respond to such a statement. It had been years since he had last encountered someone who was obviously as drunk as Molly, and he remembered quite clearly that he had not handled the previous situation with as much aplomb as he would've liked.

"Hello? Anyone home?" Molly lightly knocked her fingers against the side of his head.

Another minute passed before he was done thinking the situation through, and his eyes suddenly refocused on the room. "You, Molly Hooper, are entirely too impaired to go back to your own accommodations tonight. Therefore, you may graciously have the couch in our living room to sleep on. In the morning, you will be hung-over, but able to function properly without fear of harming yourself, and you shall return home."

She appeared to give it some serious consideration, and then nodded. "I think you're right." She gave him a gentle smile. "Thanks for watching out for me, Sherlock." He stiffly nodded back.

There was a sudden, awkward pause in their conversation. "I suppose I shall be off to bed then." He abruptly stood from the table, and looked down upon Molly still seated. Startled, she swayed in her chair and clumsily tried to push herself into a standing position.

"Wait – ah!" She pitched forward, her legs unable to find a sense of balance. Out of reflex, Sherlock extended his arm and caught her mid-fall. Sheepishly, she peeped at him out of the corner of her eye.

With a resigned sort of sigh, Sherlock maneuvered his way around the table and used his body weight to prop Molly up. "You are entirely helpless." He stated, but his words were flat. They lacked their usual vindictive and sarcastic bite. At this point, Molly had nearly dozed off where she stood, and was slumped uncomfortably against his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He helped her to the couch and eased her as gently as he could onto the cushions. He stared at her sleeping form, laying prone in his living room. She was breathing deeply and evenly, and every breath stirred a lock of hair that was dangling in front of her face. He grabbed a blanket and tossed it over her, and on instinct she curled into the warmth.

_Protect. _

The word popped into his mind, so suddenly and unbidden that he surprised himself. He took a step away from her, his brow creasing. Sherlock shook his head – partly to erase that word from his mind, and also to internally laugh at his own emotional slipup.

He left her on the couch and retreated into his own room. The entire time, he kept mumbling to himself, under his breath. "This is an experiment, you do not become _attached _to an experiment. You conduct your research and move on. There is nothing else. There can be nothing else. Molly Hooper is nothing. She is nothing but research and data." He repeated those phrases like a mantra, over and over. He fell asleep whispering them into the air.

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I have the hardest time trying to balance Sherlock's reactions and emotions to things that Molly does. I know I ended this chapter with him being a total tool, but I need to ask my reader's for their opinions.

_Spoiler for the next chapter: _Molly wakes up in the middle of the night after having a nightmare - she has them frequently, and they're always of cadavers that she's seen. How should Sherlock react? Compassionately or not? I don't want to rush things just yet. Let me know!


	5. Nightmares

**A/N: **I'm so, _so _sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out. I've been juggling two research papers this previous week and one is sixteen pages long - if that gives you any idea about how I've been spending my time. So I'm also apologizing at the crappy writing in this chapter. I guess I don't write well under stress. Anyways, thank you for being patient, and enjoy!

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Sherlock couldn't deny it any longer. He had attempted to fall back asleep and plead ignorance in the morning if the topic ever arose, but by now it was a lost cause. Molly's whimpers and occasional small screams had become loud enough that someone would have to be certifiably deaf not to hear them. He had to intervene – and he really did not want to.

With a long, resigned sigh he crept down the hallway from his bedroom to the living room. He remained hidden in the shadows for a moment, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do once confronted with her. He cringed at the thought of her sobbing next to him, pleading for sympathy. Emotional encounters were definitely not his forte. And yet, he felt bound by some odd sense of duty to do _something _to ease her obvious distress.

He approached the couch warily, about as enthusiastic as a prisoner on his way to his execution, and gazed at Molly. She was tangled rather tightly in her blanket, her face shiny with a fresh layer of sweat. His attention was particularly drawn to her expression – tortured, agonized, beyond petrified. Sherlock cocked his head.

"Molly." It was a rough whisper. She shifted around on the couch, but didn't wake. He frowned. "Molly!" He said, louder. Still, she was locked in a nightmare she couldn't escape from.

He reached out a hand and poked her shoulder. "_Molly!" _

She bolted upright with a tiny shriek, and wildly looked about the room. When her eyes finally landed on Sherlock she relaxed the tiniest bit. "Oh – oh. Sherlock!" She couldn't hide the confusion in her tone – it was clear she didn't remember the previous night, or couldn't bring it to memory just yet. Even in her present state, she seemed genuinely appalled at herself for causing him trouble. "I – I didn't wake you, did I?"

"You were screaming." He stated bluntly.

As she looked at him, her eyes went wide. She untangled herself from her cocoon, and swiped a hand across her face to wipe off some of the sweat. She was jittery and embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Her voice was quiet. "I can't really control it…" She trailed off.

"You woke me up." Another statement.

Molly was at a loss for words – how exactly could she explain to the most emotionally stunted man she has ever known what exactly her nightmares were like? The raw fear she felt? Her eyes closed in concentration.

_Dead hands. Cold, dead hands that pawed at her skin, raking their nails across her arms. The blank, fathomless stares she endured as dozens of eyes rested on her skin – her flesh crawled at the feeling. And they were always advancing on her. Surrounding her, capturing her, pressing themselves onto her. No matter how loud she screamed, they were swallowed by the wall of bodies. They were going to make her feel exactly as they did, right before they died. They wanted revenge, they wanted satisfaction, and they wanted her._

She reopened her eyes and shivered involuntarily. Sherlock remained frozen before her. "You wouldn't know." She murmured.

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at her. She would catch his gaze every so often and squirm on the couch, her pink cheeks flushing all over again. He read her body language – defeated, terrorized, and helpless. He noticed how each time she met his eyes he noticed hers were swimming in unshed tears. Her bottom lip was being chewed to bits. She was valiantly holding herself under tight control, fighting off the emotional waves that were dangerously close to spilling over. He had to give her an iota of credit.

He finally shifted from foot to foot. "Did you wish to speak about it?" He asked quietly. He instantly regretted his words. _What am I thinking? _

She didn't respond immediately, instead she picked at the fraying ends of the blanket. She gave him a sad smile. "I'm alright." Her voice shook slightly, but she pushed onwards. "Thank you, Sherlock. Go back to bed."

He gave a curt nod and turned away. After a few steps he heard the tiniest of cries from behind him. It was so pitiful and lonely, he twisted back around. Molly stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to silence her whimpering, but she was having a much harder time controlling the flow of tears that were dripping down her face.

Something clicked.

In one long stride, Sherlock crossed the small space between them and settled himself on the couch. He was close enough to feel the tremors coming off of her, and he could practically smell her fear. She refused to look at him. "I – I'm s-s-sorry…" She mumbled around her hand.

In another single, graceful movement he had wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. They both froze. Molly was too startled by the sudden, incredibly dramatic turn of events, and struggled to coherently remember why she had just been crying. And Sherlock, all his senses were on red alert. He could smell the sweet perfume of her hair; feel her tears drying into the fabric of his shirt. His fingers reflexively tightened around her arm.

As Molly relaxed into his embrace, Sherlock noticed from the corner of his eye a figure moving in the shadows of the hallway. John poked his head into view, and caught sight of the two figures sitting in the living room. His expressions flitted across his face in rapid succession – confusion, shock, more confusion, and finally… was that anger? After a moment, John receded back into the darkness of the hallway.

So Sherlock sat there on the sofa, in 221B Baker Street. Molly was dozing off in his arms, and he sat still as a statue, thinking deeply. What had caused him to do such a drastic action? He flicked his gaze down to the top of her head. Why Molly Hooper? He frowned. He couldn't properly answer those questions, or the hundreds of others that were whirring around in his brain.

But most importantly, and most disturbingly, what was he feeling towards this introverted, shy woman?

* * *

Honestly, I was developing writers block the farther and farther I got into this chapter. Once I knock out these two research papers hopefully my life will be a little bit easier and my writing will improve. Always remember, rate and review, please!


	6. The Conversation

**A/N: **Who does homework...? Procrastinating my papers and decided to write another chapter. Hope you guys like it!

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"Sherlock."

"I'm busy."

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

"Go away."

"_Sherlock!" _

Thoroughly annoyed, he cracked open one eye and glared at his friend. John stood near Sherlock's feet at the end of the couch, his face set into a deep scowl. He placed his hands on the armrests of the sofa and leaned forward. His glowering look intensified. With a deep sigh, Sherlock shifted himself into an upright position and sarcastically patted the cushion next to him. Watson primly sat down.

"Well?" Sherlock seemed impatient.

"You honestly haven't a clue as to why I want to speak with you?" John asked.

Sherlock fought the overpowering urge to roll his eyes and smack Watson simultaneously. Instead, he shot John a leveled stare. His face was void of any emotion. "No. If I had even the foggiest of ideas do you think I would be asking _you?_" His tone was cutting. Quite frankly the worst thing anyone could do to Sherlock Holmes was disturb him when he was wandering the halls of his mind palace. Now that John had disrupted his train of thought, he was feeling most grumpy indeed.

John held up two fingers. "I'll give you a hint. Two words. Molly Hooper."

"What about her?"

John was incredulous. He understood perfectly well just how emotionally hindered Sherlock was, but to completely miss the ramifications of his current "research study?" That was beyond comprehension. Surely Sherlock wasn't that… clueless. "You're serious?"

Finally exasperated to the point of being rude, Sherlock said: "If all you're going to do is waste my time by questioning me and refusing to get to the actual point of this so-called conversation, then I see no point in continuing it." He turned away and steepled his fingers beneath his chin – his classic gesture.

"This is inappropriate." Watson said bluntly.

"This conversation?" Sherlock responded. "Extremely."

"No, no. Your research study! Sherlock –" John was cut off by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. She was smiling nervously and fidgeting with the hem of her blouse.

"Oh, Sherlock… Inspector Lestrade is downstairs and wishes to speak with you. Is now a good time?" She glanced curiously between the two men, obviously sensing the tension between them.

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"No." Watson said at the exact same moment. Mrs. Hudson looked rather uncomfortable.

"It's all right Mrs. Hudson. Send up Lestrade and I shall speak with him." Sherlock worked to put a polite tone into his voice, and Mrs. Hudson looked mollified. She smiled at him once more before turning to walk back down the stairs.

John spun his head back around. "Sherlock you can't just ignore this conversation! I really need to speak with you!"

Sherlock stood up from the couch and began to pace around the room. He casually flipped a hand at John. "Another time, another time. Perhaps there is interesting news." He stopped by the window and eagerly waited for Lestrade, who eventually appeared in the doorway. He nodded at the two men.

"There was a theft in the British Museum early this morning. Whoever it was disarmed the cameras without being seen. Guards were unconscious across the area. Nothing apparently has been reported stolen yet but who would go through the trouble of doing all that if they didn't plan to take something?"

After a moment's pause, Sherlock crossed the room and retrieved his coat and scarf, then made his way for the exit of the apartment. Both John and the inspector looked blankly at each other before rushing out of the room to catch up with Sherlock. They met him in the staircase. "Are you off to the Museum?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked surprised. "No. Why would I be?"

For a second, Lestrade floundered around with his wording. "Didn't you just hear me? There was a massive break in!" His voice escalated in pitch to enunciate the importance of such a matter. John silently nodded his agreement, though he still remained annoyed at the antics of his friend.

"Come find me when you've managed to scrape up a more interesting case. Until then I have no reason to pursue such a matter when I have other much more interesting topics to discover and research." He flipped up the collar of his trench coat. He curtly nodded at the two gentlemen. "Goodbye." He sauntered out the front door of 221B Baker Street.

Lestrade was too stunned to move. John regained his senses enough to call out to Sherlock as he walked down the sidewalk, "Where are you going?"

Without turning around, Sherlock replied back, "Isn't it obvious?" He seemed to enjoy his little dig at John's previous conversation attentions. "Molly Hooper's flat!" And with that, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and continued on his way, blithely ignored Watson's outraged stutters, until they eventually faded out of range. He was quite excited to see what Molly had in store for him today – what better way to research her than in her own environment?

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By the way, I'm literally clueless as to how Lestrade is supposed to act. I can pretty much pinpoint Molly and Sherlock and John and their personality traits, but Lestrade is just so... bland, in my opinion. So, sorry if he seems iffy in this chapter!


	7. Trouble

**A/N: **I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but this is my first night free of doing any sort of schoolwork and after writing something like 22 pages of research these past few days, my writing skills are pretty much dead. Enjoy anyways!

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Finally, Molly had received a day off from work. For the first time in ages she didn't have to rise at the crack of dawn and trudge downtown to St. Bartholomew's Hospital and spend upwards of twelve hours on her feet examining cadavers. She wasn't complaining per se, she was just really, _really _enjoying the time off.

Currently, she was languishing in her flat's tiny bathtub. It was filled to the brim with steaming, hot water and the delicious aroma of scented bath beads was permeating the air. A stack of fluffy towels was resting on the bathroom's heater, absorbing the heat so when Molly finally decided to leave the water she would soon be enveloped in more cozy warmth. With her eyes closed and head tipped back, Molly was perfectly relaxed.

Until.

In the relative quiet of the bathroom, Molly could've sworn she heard a knocking noise coming from outside. Slowly, she slid into a sitting position and cocked her head towards the door. The cool air swirled around her shoulders and she shivered, sinking deep into the water again. _It's nothing _she told herself. _A flat this old is bound to make some noises here and there. _So when the same tapping sound was heard again, she simply shrugged it off and reclosed her eyes.

Sherlock stood in front of the entrance to Molly Hooper's flat, his face puckered into a frown. He was quite certain she was home at the moment. He remembered seeing this date on the calendar in her lab circled rather voraciously, and was marked, "DAY OFF!" with an obscene amount of exclamation points. Annoyed, he jiggled the doorknob aggressively. To his utmost surprise, it gave way and the door swung open. He momentarily questioned as to why Molly kept her doors unlocked, before striding purposefully into the little foyer area.

Politely, he shucked off his shoes before walking farther into her flat. He wandered aimlessly around the living room, closely inspecting the furniture she had and the knickknacks that were scattered about. While it wasn't exactly his preference, he couldn't deny that Molly had good tastes. After poking around in the living room, Sherlock entered her kitchen. He crept around in her cupboards and peeked into her refrigerator. He thoroughly inspected the two main rooms to Molly's flat and was disappointed to discover she wasn't here.

Suddenly, his ears pricked to a noise coming from down the hall. It was a sloshing, wet sound…

Sherlock mentally slapped himself. Of course, she must be in the bathroom! He sauntered down the dimly lit hallway and stopped outside the second door on the left. Light poured out in a strip from beneath the doorframe, and he could hear faint sounds coming from within. He raised his right hand, poised to knock.

Molly felt rather like a bowl of jelly as she climbed out of the tub. Her skin was flushed pink and pruned, and nothing sounded better than climbing into her bed and sleeping. She bent down to unplug the tub. The old, claw footed tub gurgled to life as the water began to drain out, and she missed the gentle knock on the bathroom door.

Just as she was reaching for a towel, the door swung open. She watched in slow motion as Sherlock's expression turned from aloof, to a disturbed curiosity (that pervert), to shock. His face slackened. After another agonizingly long moment, she realized she was completely naked – save for the still folded up towel she was clutching against her chest. Her mouth rounded and she let out an ear-splitting shriek before launching herself in his general direction and slamming the door in his face.

"_SHERLOCK!"_

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Snicker snicker. Keep up the reviews guys, I love hearing what you all think. And thank you thank you thank you for all the support!


	8. The Confession

**A/N: **Oh God, I'm so sorry for the absolute crap that is this chapter. I'm drowning in the end of the year finals and papers, but I figured I needed to churn _something _out for this story. What a joke. I'm considering rewriting this chapter once this semester is over. Not sure yet. Try and enjoy... good luck.

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Really, it wasn't fair. Sherlock didn't understand why he was banned to Molly's living room. He hadn't even done anything wrong, in his opinion. He was naturally curious by nature, and the fact that Molly hadn't heard a single knock puts _her _in the wrong. She really ought to get her hearing checked out…

He let out a long sigh and reached for his cell phone. After a moment, he put it to his ear and waited. "John." He finally said. There was a long silence on the other end of the line before John responded, rather vehemently.

"Sherlock, what the hell? Where are you? Lestrade is furious at you for just leaving and –"

"John, please." Sherlock put his fingertips to his temple and briefly closed his eyes. "I'm in a bit of trouble, apparently." He cast a glance down the hallway to see if Molly had emerged from her room yet. No sign.

"What did you do." It wasn't even a question, it sounded more like a statement, and Sherlock frowned.

"I did not do a single thing." Sherlock's tone was clipped and precise. "It seems that I stumbled upon Molly right as she was exiting her bath and caught her at a rather awkward moment." Again, there was another moment of quiet from John.

"What?" John's tone was incredulous.

"She was…" Sherlock stumbled for a moment. "Ah. Without clothing." His speech was interrupted by an incredibly loud snort of laughter. He pulled the phone away from his ear in distaste, and held it at arms length until John's chortling had died down. It took several minutes.

Finally, John was able to speak properly, although this voice quivered every so often with suppressed humor. "How exactly did you manage that, Sherlock?"

"I wasconcerned. Her door was unlocked and opened freely by my hand, so I simply wanted to make sure she was alright." It startled him to realize that what he had said was true. He _had _been worried. Sherlock was only too aware of how many enemies he had in the world, and he wasn't sure if they had decided to target Molly or no. The thought of her in danger gave Sherlock a most peculiar feeling in his chest and he became acutely aware of how hard it was to breathe suddenly.

Something in Sherlock's voice must have alerted John that this matter was more serious that he originally thought, and he quieted down. "Is she?"

"Is she what?"

"Okay. She wasn't hurt or anything?"

"No, no. She was perfectly fine, although spitting like a mad cat when she saw me standing at the bathroom door. God, John, it was –"

"Sherlock! Spare me the details." John cut in hastily.

"Please prevent yourself from thinking of anything crude and distasteful about this affair, John. I simply was going to state that it was a relief to see her safe." He wasn't able to hear his friend's reply, before Molly's voice called out to him from somewhere in the flat.

"Sherlock? Are you still here?" Her voice was sweet again, and without thinking, he ended the call and stuffed the phone back into his coat pocket. She appeared from the hallway, clothed in a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt. When she saw him, a furious blush bloomed on her cheeks, but she smiled. "I thought you had left, sorry it took me so long."

For a moment, Sherlock was still. "You look… nice." He said eventually. That was what you were supposed to say to a woman, right?

Molly eyed him suspiciously before looking away and self-consciously picking at a spot on her pants. "Oh. This? It's just – It's something I wear when I'm home." She was flustered, but quickly regained herself. "Why exactly are you here? Was this supposed to be a social call or what?"

He nodded curtly. "A social call, precisely. Yet upon arriving, I noticed that your door was unlocked so I became rather concerned for you – the average person usually locks their doors – and decided to make sure you were unharmed." He gave her another cursory glance.

She didn't respond, just stared at the wall, lost in thought. Every so often her brow would pucker. "Sherlock?" She asked.

"What?"

She swallowed. "This. This… whole _thing. _Your proposed research experiment, dinner, coming over here. That's just a ruse, isn't it?"

He blankly looked at her. She forged on ahead, before she lost what little will she had.

"You're growing concern over me, that's what has given you away. Sherlock, you've developed feelings for me!" Her voice sounded stunned, but relatively confident. When she focused on Sherlock once more, he was slowly shaking his head. Instantly, she shrank back and hugged her arms tight around her. _Way to make a fool of yourself, Molly Hooper. You've let your imagination run too far. Sherlock doesn't have feelings – at least not for me. _

"Impossible. Truly impossible." He muttered to himself. "Molly." He spoke her name and she winced before looking at him. Her body was tight and jittery, and she looked on the verge of tears. He cocked his head. "What is it?"

"I was wrong. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said those things. It must be the shock from earlier, please ignore me." She blurted on, rambling on. He held up a hand.

"No. No." He furrowed his eyebrows. "It seems you are indeed right. I have developed some sort of emotion for you that is most unusual for me. It's near impossible, but yes. It's happened."

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Oh yeah, reading this makes me want to cry. Definitely going to rewrite this. Reviews are still appreciated, but please be gentle. ;)


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